


wondering if i've got a soul

by rillrill



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU fic. Clove came here to win. You’re a fool to think she won’t follow through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wondering if i've got a soul

**Author's Note:**

> Part II of my Careers series. Hints of Clove/Cato but nothing extraordinary. Warnings for major character death and maybe some gore? It’s not SUPER graphic, but, ya know. Gotta cover all bases.

_how has it come to this? well i haven’t got a clue  
you looking up at me and us two lowering down on you_

_i’m gonna kill everyone in this room._  
     – the mountain goats, “cut off their thumbs”

 

When the announcement sounds through the arena, they stare at each other in disbelief. “Two tributes can win…” Cato murmurs, a familiar look of less-than-immediate comprehension playing on his face. 

“If they are both from the same district,” finishes Clove. She nods. And then a smile dawns on both of their faces.

It’s them against the star-crossed lovers of District 12. Lover Boy and the girl who hides in trees.

They can both win.

 

~

 

This is not the beginning of their story. Their story, of course, starts long before this announcement. It starts in District 2, years ago. 

District 2 isn’t as well-off as the Capitol, but it’s the next best place to live. It’s frowned upon to have more than one child per family, as food can still be tight in years when the harvest isn’t as good, but if anyone can get away with bending that rule, it’s the Peacekeepers, who simply raise the best citizens of Panem, the most compliant and adherent to the rules that keep the nation afloat. Clove’s mother trains Peacekeepers. Her father is one. She is the youngest of three, and from her earliest moments of consciousness, she knows there’s something different about her. 

She and her siblings play Hunger Games in the house, running around, pummeling each other with pillows and toy weapons, shrieking whenever they’re hit and collapsing to the ground dramatically. Their mother gets upset when they start playing “that awful game, stop it, or at least go outside,” but Father just smirks, watching with intent and cheering on the victor. When Clove wins, he picks her up, spins her around, parades her around the little house on her “victory tour.” 

When she reaches school age, Father tells her that she’ll be going to a special kind of school, one for particularly gifted children. He tells her that she may be scared at times, but crying is not permitted. 

What a silly thing to say, she thinks. She never cries.

 

~

 

It’s all gone to shit. 

Their supplies are gone. Blasted sky-high by the damn land mines – they should’ve known better than to trust that kid from 3. She watches with relish as Cato snaps his neck, hurling him to the ground where fire from the explosion still smolders. Before, they had enough food to last another two weeks at least (as long as they were conservative about it). Now, who knows? Their choices now: hunt, or hope for gifts. Hunting is a waste of time. Waiting for their sponsors to toss them a bone is unreliable – they could be waiting for days.

“Where are you going?” Cato asks, squinting at her as she heads off into the woods. She glances over her shoulder and laughs.

“I’m going to kill Katniss Everdeen.”

 

~

 

She remembers first seeing him in the training center, already brawny and muscular though he was only a couple years older than she, wrestling with the other boys just to prove his strength. The boys are always roughing each other up. The girls don’t do much physical fighting – it’s all psychological warfare in their bunks, slight insinuations and casual descriptions of vicious, gory dreams in which a classmate is decapitated or tortured. She joins in, of course, because it’s the only real way to assess her opponents’ minds, see which ones will crack under real pressure. She’s good at it. Slate, Flax, and Astra all leave the program, the first two by choice as runaways, the third as a mental patient. 

She remembers thinking how annoying the whole psych-the-girls-out rigmarole is. Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill them?

 

~

 

When Marvel hurls the spear that hits that insufferable child – Rue? Yes, Rue. – she snickers, grins, reminds herself to make his death reasonably quick and painless. 

A split second later, when Katniss’ arrow hits him squarely in the jugular vein, he falls to the ground, blood spraying from his neck. Clove’s eyes widen and she reaches for a knife. Katniss is already on the ground, stroking that little girl’s hair, tears filling her eyes and visible even from this distance. She’s wide open, an unmoving target, easy pickings. But here? In the middle of the forest, alone? It would be easy, yes, but there’s no challenge. And the girl who destroyed their supplies and dropped the tracker jacker nest on their encampment deserves a more theatrical death than this. Something big. Something much more public.

Clove turns on her heel and darts back off into the forest, headed back to the Cornucopia. Katniss will have to come back out sometimes. And she will be waiting.

 

~

 

Training isn’t just practical lessons in knives, spears, maces, and bows. It’s theoretical, too, watching tapes of previous Games and taking intense, precise notes on where the losers went wrong. They learn multiple uses for single weapons, memorize poisonous plants and pressure points on the human body. 

They’re not really supposed to do this, of course. But the Capitol turns a blind eye; it always has. And after all, when you’re going into a death match, is it so wrong to want an advantage? To be as prepared as one can possibly be? 

District 2 does not authorize tributes with moral qualms about the Games. This is where it has the upper hand on 1 and 4, which simply sends its strongest tributes with no regard for their psychological state. The students who fail the psych exam leave the program immediately – it’s no use hardening them up, the officials say; that’s a mistake they’ve made enough times to learn that it doesn’t work. When they leave, Clove learns, they often enter Peacekeeper training; when she’s allowed out, she often spots a pair of familiar eyes beneath a helmet. Eyes that she’s seen widen in fear.

No, that’s not it. Eyes that she’s seen widen in fear of her.

 

~

 

“Did you get her?” Cato’s first words when she arrives back at the clearing are full of hope. She shakes her head.

“Not yet,” she says. “It was too easy.”

She can tell this is going to anger him, almost before she says it. And certainly, he advances on her, face flushed, teeth bared, fists clenched and knuckles white. 

“What do you mean,” he says, almost growling as he grabs her shoulders, “it was too easy?”

Her breath catches in her throat. He could kill her now, if he wanted to. He has the strength. He’s got the upper hand. And so she plays this the only way she can:

“I wanted you to have the pleasure of watching,” she says, sweet as honey spiked with arsenic. “She was just sitting there, crying over her poor dead little friend. Is that really how we want her to go out? Crying like a child?”

Cato releases his grip a bit, but his hands remain on her shoulders, heavy and warm, as the familiar glint returns to his eyes. “No,” he agrees, a smile growing on his face. “What are you suggesting?”

She thinks for a moment. Considers the prospects. “Well,” she says, brushing two fingers over one of the mostly-healed stings on her neck. “What comes to mind when I say ‘Girl on Fire’?”

 

~

 

After the Reaping, she has a few minutes to say goodbye to her family.

Her mother doesn’t say much. “I love you,” she says, but her eyes are cast downward and the quaver in her voice betrays her. 

Her father is more forthcoming. “You’ll be wonderful,” he says, practically aglow. “And remember, when you win, and if they like you, you might even get to move to the Capitol! Imagine, getting to live there – you deserve it. You’ve worked so hard.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Now, that other boy is bigger, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Remember the story your mother used to tell you? About the giant?”

Clove nods, remembering the ancient folk tale about the boy who killed a giant with a slingshot and a stone. “Brute force is good, but small and clever is better,” she says, reciting the moral dutifully. “Don’t worry. Of course I’m going to win.”

He smiles at her, approving and proud. “Of course you are,” he says, resting a hand atop her head, stroking her shiny dark hair. “Now go. I’ll be watching. Everyone will.”

 

~

 

When the announcement rings through the arena, they stop dead in their tracks. Two can win if they originate from the same district. She runs through the list of the dead in her head – no, it’s true, they’re one of the only pairs left standing.

“So,” Cato says casually. “Looks like the odds are in our favor again.”

She laughs, harsh and throaty. “You think?” 

They head for the thicket around the outskirts of the clearing, looking for shelter. Only a few left to pick off now. They only have to wait.

 

~

 

Six or seven mentors total accompany them to the Capitol. 2 is flush with former winners, and they don’t have to use them all each year, but they prefer to bring a surplus, as there’s no real rule against it. It’s frowned upon, of course – even the other Career Districts make a point to only bring one per tribute – but, well, all’s fair in love and murder games.

In their little apartment at the Capitol, the mentors sit with Clove and Cato, discussing technique for the arena in a circle. “What you want is to develop a signature style,” says a woman named Enobaria, baring her teeth and pointing to her gilded, filed incisors. “The audience loves it when you really put on a show. Find your greatest strength and stick with it.”

Cato is nodding. She’s seen him snap necks at the training center, break bones with a single twist of his hand, relishing the crack of the bones. Clove is less convinced.

“But if you don’t vary your attacks, won’t everyone know what to expect?” she challenges, raising her chin in a defiant posture. “Isn’t it better to do it differently every time, so no one will see you coming?”

The mentors all exchange glances, and one whispers to another, “Looks like we’ve got another winner this year.”

When he hears this, Cato flushes.

 

~

 

Katniss comes to the Cornucopia. Of course she does. Fetching Lover Boy’s medicine like a good little girlfriend should. Pathetic.

Clove sees her chance, nods at Cato from their vantage point. Then she hurls herself across the field, tackling Katniss and bringing the knife to her throat. “Any last words, girl on fire?” she asks, digging the heel of her hand into a pressure point on the older girl’s shoulder and dragging the knife lightly across her throat, hard enough to rip the skin but not enough to enough to break a vein. “Want to confess your love? Hope your cute little boyfriend comes running in to save you? Because he won’t, you know. We’re going to kill you, just like we killed your little pet Rue, and then we’re going to kill him. Everyone you love… they’re all smoke and ashes in the end.”

Katniss writhes beneath her, trying to knock her off, and she does put up a good fight – but by the time Clove feels a hot, strong hand around her throat, it’s too late for the girl beneath her. As Thresh pulls Clove up, slams her to the ground, against the Cornucopia, she can see the knife stuck in the other girl’s heaving chest, her eyes struggling to focus.

And then Cato tackles Thresh from above.

There’s a spatter of blood and a crack of bone, and for a moment, dazed from the impact of hitting the hard earth, she doesn’t know who’s winning – they’re a furious blur of bodies, no weapons, just fists. When she realizes Thresh has Cato pinned, though, her mind clicks back into action, and she lunges for Katniss’ bow – the one the dead girl stole from Glimmer, pried it out of her cold dead hands (literally). She grabs the bow, loads an arrow, and – one eye closed for concentration – she sinks it into Thresh’s temple at point-blank range.

He slumps over Cato’s body. Death comes to him nearly instantly. She’s worried for a moment that Cato is gone – until she nudges Thresh’s head with one foot, almost experimentally, and catches his eyes.

“Christ, Clove,” he spits. “Do you fucking mind?”

“Right,” she says, and as the cannon sounds twice, she shifts Thrust’s limp body just enough so that Cato can slide out from beneath him. Then, together, they open the pack designated for District 2.

Bread and matches. They glance at each other and laugh.

That night, they build a fire and toss Katniss’ body on top of it. The irony is delicious, Clove thinks, as they head out in search of the final two.

 

~

 

It’s quiet in the District 2 apartment, the night before the Games begin. She’s standing in the living room, flicking silverware at a makeshift target she’s made by pinning a bedsheet to a wall. The Avox servants watch her, eyes flicking back and forth between the target and her steak knives. They’re not made for throwing – the weight of the handles is all wrong – but it never hurts to prepare for all eventualities, and as she quickly adapts her throws to correct for the bulky handles, she can feel a wave of calm wash over her, taking deep breaths and she flicks the knives into the center of the target.

“Practicing won’t help you now.” The voice comes from across the room and she almost shrieks, managing to contain herself but still bungling her throw. The knife buries itself in the wall, two feet away from the bedsheet, and as she turns, she sees Cato, arms crossed and staring at her from across the room.

“Oh, it’s just you,” she says dismissively, crossing to yank the knife out of the wall.

“Just me? Who else would it be?”

“For a minute I thought one of them was talking to me,” she mumbles, gesturing at the Avoxes around her. He chuckles and she stiffens. “Did you want something, or did you just come down for the show?”

“I wanted to see if there was any roast chicken left from dinner.”

“It’s gone. You should stay. I like an audience.”

Cato shakes his head. “I know you do,” he says, laughing to himself. “We all do.”

 

~

 

The auburn-haired girl is dead when they find her, collapsed in a pool of blood and vomit. There are purple stains on her fingers and around her mouth, and she clenches a handful of berries in one fist. “Oh, that’s nightlock,” Cato laughs. “What an idiot.”

“You think she knew?” asks Clove, raising an eyebrow. 

Cato shrugs. “Probably not,” he says. “In any case, makes our job easier. One down…”

“And one to go,” she finishes. “Let’s go find Lover Boy.”

 

~

 

They find him in a cave, shaking and close to death. It’s the easiest kill the two of them will make. 

“Katniss?” he asks nervously as they approach. The look on his face when he recognizes the two figures before him, then, is one they’ll both cherish for the rest of their lives.

“What did you do to her?” he asks, as Cato stands with a boot on his chest and Clove spits on a knife, drying it on her pants to make it clean and shiny.

“Killed her, obviously,” is Clove’s response as she grins down at him, the familiar, manic thrill returning to her blood. It’s the sensation she feels just before she takes a life, and she’s never felt anything that matches this emotion – all her senses abuzz and tingling, pulse pounding and blood coursing through her veins in double time. She is all-powerful. She is brilliant. She is going to fucking kill you and leave your body for the forest vermin, ha ha, any last regrets to voice before lights out? “With this knife right here. Drove it right into her chest and watched as she twitched and coughed up blood.”

By the time they finally kill him, he’s begging them to put him out of his misery. The two gladly comply.

As they leave the cave, they turn to each other, grinning.

“Well,” says Cato. “Cheers to the change in rules. Race you back to the Cornucopia? I think they’ll want to collect us there.”

“I’ll give you a head start,” says Clove with a wicked grin. “I’m still faster than you.”

Cato laughs and takes off. He’s maybe fifty yards ahead when Clove’s arrow hits him squarely in the back.

He falls to the dirt, slowly, almost gracefully, and as the cannon sounds and the announcer proclaims her the winner of the 74th Hunger Games, Clove stares up at the top of the arena, unthinking, unfeeling.

There could only be one winner. One champion. And it’s her, of course it’s her. It was never going to turn out any differently. This is how it’s always been. It’s not as if Cato would have hesitated to kill her, if it came down to it and the Capitol had changed the rules again. (Or would he? This thought crosses her mind late at night, and she has to shake it off.)

 

~

 

She moves to the Capitol after her Victory Tour, just as her father predicted she might. District 2’s winners almost always seem to end up moving away, at least for a little while – just one of the little perks of living there. They give her an apartment near the President’s mansion and the citizens gawk at her in the street, asking for autographs and fawning over that striking final move during the last moments of the game. Fabulous, wasn’t it? Such a show! 

Such a show. She can still see the broad muscles of his back twitching and shuddering around the arrow. She can still see his face spattered in Thresh’s blood, the deranged glint in his eye as he snapped the District 3 boy’s neck, the look of horror he wore as they soaked their tracker jacker stings in an antivenom Enobaria sent them, when Clove reminded him that they’d left Glimmer behind. Killing strangers never troubled her; why should this?

She shakes it off. Moves on with her life. She is the victor. Bring on the happy ending.

Her story does not end here. But suffice it to say, there is no happy ending.


End file.
